


Twelve Days of Fic-mas

by bottledspirits



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottledspirits/pseuds/bottledspirits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of short fics written in the days leading up to RSS. Themed after "The Twelve Days of Christmas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (Twelve) Drummers Drumming

**Author's Note:**

> These were originally inbox fic for my giftee, lyssana11. They were compiled on my blog and are being posted here for your convenience.

Belle heard the sound as she was taking in the laundry. The sun was bearing down overhead, warming her bare arms, and a breeze brought the scent of fresh greenery over the mountains.

It was a faint sound, a sort of thrumming, like the sound of a heartbeat. Belle paused in taking down a clean white sheet from the line. She listened as she smoothed the sheet absently over one arm. The noise died after a moment and she went back to folding sheets into her basket. **  
**

The sun had declined somewhat, casting golden shadows across the room as she scrubbed the floor in the gallery when the sound returned. It was stronger now, and had changed tempo slightly, so that it resembled the sound of hooves beating on the ground. Belle’s brow creased and she sat back, heedless of the dripping rag she held in her lap. Did they have a guest? **  
**

She put the rag back in the bucket and went to the front hall. The latch gave her some trouble, heavy as it was – it was no wonder Rumplestiltskin had taken to using magic to open doors – and it was some moments before she was able to push the great door aside and peer out onto the long path that led to the front gate.

The path was empty. Belle leaned out and glanced around, but saw nothing. Another breeze came rushing in, blowing back her hair and teasing her skirt around her ankles. Belle took a deep breath and relished the heady scent. There were many things she missed from her home, but she felt she could never get enough of the freedom she felt as she stood under the sun and inhaled the scents the breeze brought her.

She stood a while longer before closing the door and returning to work. It was almost time to get supper. Belle skipped back to her bucket and went back to her floors, humming.

It was when she was preparing the dishes when she heard it again, louder than ever. Belle nearly dropped the bowl she’d been placing on the tray as the sound of footsteps thundered overhead; it sounded like an army was tromping through the great hall. She quickly put the bowl down and hurried off to see the source of the noise, but she was halfway up the stairs when it stopped.  **  
**

Belle waited a moment, head cocked on one side. No noise came now, except her pulse pounding in her heart. The girl sighed and went back to the kitchen to get the tray.

She exchanged the usual greetings with Rumplestiltskin as she laid out his supper. If she was quiet, it was out of contemplation, and he watched her curiously. Belle took no notice of his gaze, intent as she was on arranging the dishes to her liking. **  
**

Just as she was unfolding a napkin from the tray, she heard a tapping nearby, and her head snapped up to follow the noise. Rumplestiltskin’s fingers were resting still on the table, and the sound was gone, but he was grinning at her in a way that told her everything.

“Why, you-!” Belle said, blushing.

She lobbed the napkin at him, but Rumplestiltskin paid no heed, laughing uproariously. 


	2. (Eleven) Pipers Piping

It was early spring when Belle first ventured onto the grounds for a morning stroll. The new grass was just starting to peek through the snow. Massive drifts could be seen beyond the gate, icy and forbidding.

But the path, as always, was clear. She had yet to see anyone working the grounds. She did not she expect to. It was as if the snow simply did not fall anywhere it was not wanted.

Belle knelt at the edge of the pavement to run her fingers over the green shoots. It was good to see living things here. She turned and looked over her shoulder the grounds, yard after yard of pure white snow. It glistened like crystal in the morning sun.

She was sure it would be beautiful come summer, with the flowers in bloom and sheaves of green leaves bursting from all corners. The castle was always beautiful, of course, but so still. No friendly voices echoed through the halls. The only signs of life were those she left herself.  **  
**

It was like something out of a storybook. Sometimes she felt as if the very walls around her, with their grand tapestries and polished stone, would melt away if she touched them. So it was with a glad heart that she greeted the first brave shoots to offer their company in this empty place.

Belle stood and stretched her legs, aching after staying so long in one way. Her eyes drifted to the foot of the nearest tower. It was the same tower where her master worked day after day, she knew. He often stayed there long into the night, doing heaven knew what. He didn’t say and she didn’t ask.

She took a moment to glance at the tower windows. There was a shadow there, but as quickly as she saw it, it moved away. Belle felt her lips curve into a smile.

Rumplestiltskin had not said anything when she told him of her plans to walk the grounds. He had simply nodded, in that quiet way of his, and turned his gaze to his teacup. If he had objections, he did not voice them, and he allowed her to choose her own way.

He rarely stopped her from doing anything, nor did he tease her about her ideas the way her father would have. It was refreshing, after a life of court manners and lessons in comportment.

In fact, he took as little notice of her as possible, as if her existence was of little consequence to him. But she felt the ghost of his eyes on her back as she worked, and knew he was very aware of her indeed.

She rounded the corner of the tower and her eyes fell on a wondrous sight.

“Oh!” Belle gasped, her breath clouding around her in anxious white puffs.

At the base of the tower, tucked away like a hidden treasure, was a rosebush. The leaves shone a glossy green, and the bush was covered in crimson blooms.

Belle gathered her skirts and stepped off the path. Her heels sank in the snow, but she paid them little mind. When she reached the bush, she put out a hand to stroke the soft petals and found they were covered in a layer of sparkling frost. It didn’t seem to hurt the flowers, as when she brushed it away, the blooms were as rich and healthy underneath as if they had just blossomed that day.

Suddenly the wind picked up. Belle snatched her hand away to secure her hood against the cold breeze, and it was then that her ears caught a distant noise. It was high and sweet, like the sound of a flute. She paused and strained to hear the faint melody.

Who could it be, in an empty place like this? Perhaps a shepherd, lured, like herself, by the first signs of spring? Or could it be an echo of some warmer place, where winter had already given way to the march of the seasons? **  
**

Belle felt a tug in her stomach when she thought of green meadows and fresh faces. Her eyes fell on the rosebush, with its impossible blooms blazing against the stark white snow. She thought of the man in the tower, busy at whatever tasks he occupied himself with, and of quiet glances stolen over cups of tea.

She smiled. No, she was quite happy where she was.


	3. (Ten) Lords-a-Leaping

Sometimes she felt as if the castle rearranged itself while she wasn’t looking. But that couldn’t be, could it? Even a magic castle wouldn’t trouble itself with the fancies of one little maid.

Belle paused in the archway and held her breath. She was standing at the end of a corridor that had featured heavily in her thoughts of late. It was either very special or very annoying. Belle hadn’t decided which yet.  **  
**

On Monday she had walked through, arms full of laundry and mending, to find a gallery of broken pottery. But these pieces were unique, for rather than a pile of jagged edges, each had been reassembled and forged together with veins of precious metals where the cracks had once been. Belle stepped lightly through the hall and examined them all in turn. They had been polished to a high shine and arranged like prized objets d’art – which they were, she realized. Someone had invested a great deal of time and resources into making these things whole again, and had rendered each one priceless in doing so. She wondered at the sort of mind that would conceive of such an idea. It was a beautiful sight to behold.

She had stayed overlong in the gallery, and her arms grew tired with holding up her burden, but Belle could not help looking over her shoulder as she left the corridor to return to her work. **  
**

The next day she had gone back for another look and been sure she had taken a wrong turn. The crockery had been cleared away and replaced with a succession of white marble busts depicting stern-looking men, each more severe than the last. Foreign dignitaries of some sort, she was sure. Their forbidding stares seemed to bore into her. Belle took the time to pause before each and give them a strong gaze of her own. She would not be cowed by dead faces in cold stone. **  
**

On Wednesday she had hurried through her chores to see if it had changed once more. She was not disappointed. There was one object in the hall, midway between where she stood and the door on the far end. Belle approached it with awe.

At the center of the hall, glistening in the morning light that poured through the windows on the opposite wall, was a suit of armor worthy of Goliath himself. Belle stood and examined it for some time. Every forged seam, each rivet and bolt, was bright and untarnished. She had never seen such flawless metalwork. The knights of her homeland certainly never wore anything like it.

But the armor gave her a foreboding feeling, and she had walked quietly back to the door without glancing back. When she stopped by the door and turned for one last look, the massive suit was gone. **  
**

She had practically skipped to the corridor the next day. However, when she opened the door, Belle found her way obscured by by a tangle of golden strands. They were stuck to every surface, woven between each other to form a tunnel of sorts, but the light bounced off the threads in such a haze that she could not see the door on the other side of the hall. She had shut the door in puzzlement and jumped when she heard something skitter on the other side. **  
**

It was with some trepidation that she entered the hall the next day, but her fears were for naught. Belle found only a series of paintings that showed a rider on a great white horse. She had seen such works in her books. Unlike those tributes of power and masculine pride, however, these took a more realistic bent. The paintings showed the rider struggling to keep his seat on a less than cooperative steed. His poses were absurd, his faces downright comical, and the last of the collection showed him on the ground, defeated, his horse nudging at his side. Belle covered her mouth to mask a giggle as she looked over this scene.

Today she had made no pretense of work before racing to the hall. She stood in the archway, breath caught, before crossing the threshold. She almost thought it empty until she espied a tapestry on the far end. She approached it with measured steps and stared up with wide eyes.

The scene showed a meeting of some sort. A group of men stood around a table, arguing over some matter, for their was fury in their faces.

As she looked, the men suddenly leapt to life, stamping their feet in agitation and gesturing wildly at each other. Belle gasped and jumped back, but met resistance in the form of a pair of strong hands on her shoulders. She froze, her heart beating furiously. **  
**

They stood that way for one long, endless moment. She dared not risk so much as a glance behind her, for fear of breaking some spell. But her master made no signs of moving, uttered not a single word, evidently engrossed in his magic. Belle cautiously allowed herself to breathe again and returned her eyes to the scene on the wall.

“It’s good magic,” she said softly.

She heard him make a quiet sound of acknowledgment. His hands did not leave her shoulders.


	4. (Nine) Ladies Dancing

The place was full of dust. She didn’t know how Rumplestiltskin could stand it. Each time she opened a chamber she had never entered before, she was greeted by a layer of dust on every surface in sight.

Even the rooms that saw frequent use showed signs of neglect. On her first day in the kitchen, Belle had observed a line of footprints in the dirt that coated the floor. They began at the door and led straight to the cupboard in the pantry, then back again. There was evidence of several older tracks as well.

That night she had cast several contemplative glances in her master’s way. He didn’t look exactly human, but he acted like one, vices included. She observed him sipping his tea and reflected that being untidy was not the worst fault a person could have. And he’d brought her here, so he must have been aware of it on some level. **  
**

Belle didn’t realize Rumplestiltskin was conscious of her surveillance of him until he set down his cup with an irritable air and asked what on earth she was staring at. She’d frozen only a moment, unlike her reaction that morning when he’d made that silly quip and she’d gone rigid as a stone. This time she recovered enough to form a proper reply.

“Don’t wizards have any spells to protect against dust?” she asked.

“What?” Rumplestiltskin asked, clearly thrown. It was almost endearing, the way his face screwed up in confusion.

“I said, don’t wizards have any spells to take care of dust?” Belle said pleasantly. For the moment she had forgotten she was speaking to the Dark One.

He snorted and went back to his tea. She could have sworn he looked sheepish.

“Why would there be such a thing,” he mumbled. He drained the rest of his tea and pushed his cup toward the tray. **  
**

“Oh, I just wanted to know if it was possible,” Belle said lightly as she began stacking the tea things to take downstairs.

He gave her a shrewd look, then glanced over at something behind her. Belle turned as well. An empty plinth stood in the corner. It was covered in dust, like most everything else, for she hadn’t had time to finish cleaning this room.

Rumplestiltskin made an impatient gesture with one hand. Belle was not sure what was supposed to happen, but the dust shot into the air like a geyser. Her hands shot to her face. When she looked at Rumplestiltskin, he was glaring daggers at the slowly settling dust and pressing his lips together like he wanted to swear.

He stood from the table and stormed from the room without so much as a glance at her. Belle waited for the door to slam before she let loose the laugh she was holding back. **  
**

The next morning the plinth was sparkling clean. Rumplestiltskin made no mention of it, and Belle carefully followed suit. She could understand a little more now. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the dust, he was just too embarrassed to do anything about it. One could hardly imagine the Dark One with a besom and mop, could they?

So she’d gone to her work with renewed vigor. She certainly needed it. There were more rooms than she could clean in a lifetime, she felt. Today she shouldered open one of the heavy oak doors in the west wing, tripping over her long gown and wishing for the thousandth time that she’d been spirited away in something more practical.

The room was full of wardrobes. But not a single mirror, she noticed. She went to one of the looming cabinets, which was carved in the likeness of various animals and birds, and opened the door to find a trove of colorful dresses. They practically shone in the gloom. **  
**

She pulled down a red woolen dress with a collar of black lace. Belle held it to her chest, indulging in a girlish fancy, and swayed lightly across the room, enjoying the way the fabric moved. It was like something she would have worn in her father’s castle.

Belle left that dress hanging from the door of the wardrobe and lifted another, a mossy green velvet with tight sleeves. She swished the skirt back and forth, delighting in the sound it made. Eventually she put it with the other dress and reached for a pale blue frock she’d seen peeking from the back of the wardrobe.

This one was slightly different from the others. It was made of linen with a bodice that laced in the front. She wondered how it had ended up here. Belle held the skirt in one hand and the bodice in the other as she made one long, languid stride across the room. **  
**

“What are you doing?”

Belle squeaked and whirled round to find her master standing in the doorway. The light framed his hair, giving it an odd halo, and his eyes glittered. Was he smiling?

“I-I was just…airing things out…” Belle said breathlessly, sure he could see right through her.

“Hmm.” Rumplestiltskin turned to go, but paused with his hand on the door frame. She was sure he was grinning now. “I think the blue would suit.”  **  
**

She could only nod as he whisked out of the room. Suddenly her fingers felt warm around the fabric. She ducked her head and pressed her face into the cool cloth.


	5. (Eight) Maids-a-Milking

Belle stood in the kitchen, a small wooden pail in her hands. It was empty. She looked over it with some concern, turning it over in her hands a few times before she sighed.

“Rumplestiltskin,” Belle called quietly.

He strode into the kitchen a few minutes later, looking for all the world like he’d meant to come there. When he spotted her standing by the open window, the sunlight flooding the air around her, his face flickered into a hesitant smile and he crossed the room. His steps grew hesitant as he reached her side, and his hands twitched anxiously at his side.

“Belle,” he said gently. She looked up when he spoke, smiling at him over her shoulder when she turned and saw him standing there with that skittish look on his face. She didn’t seem surprised by his presence, but rather pleased by it, and this encouraged him to continue, “There wasn’t any-” **  
**

“I’m sorry, Rumplestiltskin,” Belle interrupted, and she sounded truly apologetic. She showed him the bucket and added, “I went to put the milk on the tray with the other things for tea, but I couldn’t find any. Normally it comes in this little pail, but this morning it was empty. Do you know what happened?”

Usually he would have been irritated to be cut off that way, except in some of his deals when it helped to wind a client up in order to make them more receptive. But he saw the puzzle in her eyes and was not disturbed in the least. He took the bucket without a word and made to examine it as she had earlier. There was nothing much special about it, just an ordinary bucket enchanted to receive the daily pint of milk he bargained for from one of the little farms down the mountain. He had wondered occasionally if it ever gave one of the maids a start to see the milk simply vanish before their eyes as they attended their morning chores. That was all he thought about it, for he paid them well and gold was of little use to him. As for the charm that transported the milk to his pantry, it was simple and should have lasted a thousand years, if he cared to be around that long.

“Do you think the spell wore off?” Belle asked, peering round to where he held the bucket in his hands.

Rumplestiltskin made a face he was not used to making – one of pricked pride – and stood up a little straighter.

“There’s nothing wrong with my magic,” he said shortly.

Belle looked up at him, unperturbed by his manner, but there was a furrow in her brow.

“Then why-?”

“I’ll look into it,” Rumplestiltskin said.

He’d been expecting another question, but to his surprise, Belle beamed at him.

“Thank you, Rumplestiltskin. I’ll just get back to making lunch in the meantime. I should have everything ready by the time you get back,” she informed him cheerfully. **  
**

She stood there, hands folded over her apron while the sunlight fair glowed on her hair. It was such a scene of utter domesticity that he felt his heart give a flutter.

“Ah, yes,” Rumplestiltskin said, taking a step back. She went on watching him in that pensive way of hers. “G-good.”

He saw her nod just before he enveloped himself in churning purple smoke. The last thing he saw was a flutter of blue skirts, and he just caught the beginning of a tune in her lilting voice as he vanished.

Rumplestiltskin materialized on the green of a sunlit meadow. A small house stood a short way off, and beyond that, an aged, slanting barn rose out of the landscape. This was the farm he bartered dairy from. **  
**

He sauntered toward the cottage with the air of a man with a grievance, but as he mounted the steps, Rumplestiltskin was caught by the sound of snoring. Frowning, he waved the door aside and was greeted by a room full of sleeping milk maids, all in various states of dishevelment, some on the floor, and at least three crowded on the narrow bed in the corner. The room bore the signs of their good cheer, and the scent of spirits hung on the air. **  
**

He pursed his lips and sighed. The sun sparkled off his hair as he turned to glance at the barn. There was only so much a man could be expected to do for a decent cup of tea.

He never told Belle he got the milk himself that day.


	6. (Seven) Swans-a-Swimming

“What’s this?” Rumplestiltskin asked. He’d found his maid fiddling with some arcane activity at the little table in the kitchen. Whatever she was doing, it involved numerous scraps of white paper. On closer inspection, he realized they’d been salvaged from the notes he wrote during his spellwork, usually saved for kindling. He could see his writing in places. The word “conflagration” stood out to him, and Rumplestiltskin was glad the notes were a hopeless jumble to anyone but himself. In any case, his little maid did not seem interested in the contents so much as the papers themselves.

Belle did not look up, but went on twisting the paper in her hands with a look of furious concentration. A shallow basin sat beside her on the table, filled with water. Rumplestiltskin was about to dip his fingers in, like a cat, when Belle made a satisfied noise and looked up. He turned his head and tucked his hand behind his back just in time to meet her eyes.

“It’s done!” she chirped. Her blue eyes shone and she smiled up at him as if not surprised in the least to find him there. She held up the results of her work for him to see.

Rumplestiltskin’s gaze slid from her face to the object held between her delicate white fingers.  **  
**

It was some kind of…sculpture? He kept his face carefully blank as he looked back to her face. She was watching him with keen anticipation.

“W-what is it?” he faltered, afraid of seeing that cheerful look on her face fade away.

To his surprise, she laughed.

“It’s a bird! A swan, to be specific. Here, look,” Belle said with the air of a kindly schoolteacher.

She turned to the basin on the table, and his eyes followed. He watched her reflection as she lowered the paper creation over the basin – did she mean to drown it? He’d done magic like that before, using an object to act in his stead, but he couldn’t imagine she would approve of such things.

Her hands moved gently over the basin, so that they hardly seemed to move at all. Rumplestiltskin did not realize he was holding his breath as the swan touched the water. He waited for it to sink, for the paper to darken and crumple up.

Instead, the swan remained floating on the water as Belle gently lifted her hand away.

“See?” she said, grinning up at him.

There was another chair beside the table. Rumplestiltskin sat down without thinking and watched the swan drift slowly across the basin. Belle took up another piece of paper and began folding it the same as before. After a moment, she paused, glanced at the entranced spinner, and with an impish grin pushed a piece of paper at him.

Rumplestiltskin dragged his eyes from the swan to the paper before him. He looked at Belle, who raised her eyebrows in challenge, and then back at the paper. Slowly, he brought his hands up and took the edge of the torn page between his fingers.

They folded paper swans for the rest of the afternoon, setting them adrift together in the basin.


	7. (Six) Geese-a-Laying

Belle was sweeping in the spinning room when she heard someone pounding on the front door. There was a heavy thump followed by long silence. Just as she thought whoever it was had gone away, the sound came again, harder than before, causing dust to fall from the ceiling as the heavy doors rattled on their hinges.

They weren’t trying to break it down, were they? Some determined villagers had tried that with a battering ram last week, and Rumplestiltskin had sent them off with a stern warning and a threat to turn them all to pumpkins if they’d damaged the woodwork. Belle was surprised he’d been so merciful.

She’d been standing in the corridor a ways behind him, drawn by the noise and commotion, and had a perfect view of the proceedings. Rumplestiltskin had been in high form. He’d thrown them off guard by flickering between giggling trickster and unconcerned lord so seamlessly that the men had no idea how to argue back.

For all that, however, he’d seemed tense; at least to her eye, grown accustomed to his shifting moods and the various personas he deployed to hide them. Throughout the confrontation he’d stood stiff as a board, shoulders taut, and his hair kept whisking to one side, as if his gaze was being drawn off elsewhere and he was just in time to check himself from turning to look.

Belle heard snippets of their conversation. They had some grievance against him, evidently to do with their mayor and a peacock, though she didn’t catch enough to understand it all. Rumplestiltskin had seemed amused by the whole affair until one of the villagers caught sight of her standing in the corridor. He’d made a remark, causing the Dark One to glance stiffly over his shoulder.

There wasn’t even time for their eyes to meet, but the next moment he’d turned his back and began delivering some flowery speech about it being too fine a day to make a mess of them on his doorstep. At their stares, he’d given a careless flick of his hand that sent them flying on a sudden wind. He’d closed the door on their startled cries and turned around to face her.

Belle had worried he was angry with her for derailing his fun, but when he walked past, he’d simply asked whether they would have tea soon. She’d stammered that she supposed so, and he’d gone back to his tower in a pensive attitude, hands folded behind him.

It was baffling. She assumed he was just in an odd humor that day, no doubt to do with some spell gone awry.

So if they’d come to try again, Belle had no doubt how their luck would turn out. She tossed her broom aside and rushed to the front door, glad to find Rumplestiltskin had not beat her to it. There was another thump on the door as Belle struggled with the iron latch.

“All right, all right, just a minute!” she huffed. **  
**

The door swung open. Belle felt her hair blown back by a gush of wind. There was a roaring sound, followed by another gust, and she was just in time to close her eyes before something soft hit her face. She brushed it away, feeling…feathers?

Belle cautiously opened one eye and locked sight on a pair of jet-black eyes. She was used to Rumplestiltskin’s uncanny gaze, but this was downright…inhuman. The maid staggered back and caught her breath. **  
**

She was staring at a six foot goose. It was hovering over the doorstep, keeping itself airborne with the occasional stroke of its enormous wings. No wonder it had so much trouble with the door.

“Ah,” drawled a voice behind her. “I see we have a guest.”

Belle turned her head slowly, unwilling to let the beast out of her sight, and found her master standing beside her, grinning like a proud schoolboy. **  
**

“Well, do let them in. We mustn’t keep anyone waiting,” Rumplestiltskin chirped at her, eyes glittering. To their strange guest he added, “Just go along to the tower. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Belle stood by as the creature gave a powerful wave of its wings and soared into the castle. It propelled itself down the corridor with another flap and surged out of sight up the stairs. She let out a breath. **  
**

Rumplestiltskin turned to her, the amusement gone from his expression, but she could tell there was mischief in his air.

“Not alarmed, were you?” he asked.

“No,” Belle said, a little too quickly. She saw his face twitch and turned away. “I have to get back to work.”

“Hmm,” was all he said. He stood there a moment while she studiously ignored him to pick up the broom and sweep a few wayward feathers into a pile. Rumplestiltskin said nothing, and when she finally glanced in his direction, he was gone.

She remained in the spinning room until the floor was conspicuously clean. There was no sign of beast or wizard for some time. The sky was turning dark outside the windows when Rumplestiltskin sauntered in, a glittering object in one hand. Belle heard his footsteps and halted her broom as he approached.

“I didn’t see your guest go out,” Belle observed as he came to a stop beside her. **  
**

“Hm, no. She preferred the window,” he replied. He made no further explanation, but went on examining his new trinket, turning it slightly so it caught the light. Belle’s gaze narrowed.

“I see your deal went well,” she said.

Rumplestiltskin lit up, as if she’d used the magic word.

“Ah, yes. Very well indeed. Take a look.” He brandished his latest treasure at her. Belle took one look at it and frowned.

“And what, exactly, did you do to get that?” she asked.

He twittered.

“Oh, nothing much,” he said in that devilish tone of his. “Just told a few stories, perhaps.”

She went on staring at him, broom cocked at her hip.

“Well if you’re trying to hatch one for yourself, you can be the one to look after it. I don’t want it scaring the chickens,” Belle said highly. She swept the broom over her shoulder and sallied off with a rustle of skirts.

Rumplestiltskin chuckled and looked back to the enormous golden egg in his hand.

“Oh, of course not,” he said. “Wouldn’t want anything to frighten our little French hen.”


	8. (Five) Golden Rings

“All right, but what do they  _do_?” Belle asked.

A box of polished cherry wood sat on the table between them. Rumplestiltskin had found her dusting in the great hall and swaggered in like the conquering hero, though the effect was somewhat ruined when he’d twittered like a bird and said she’d never guess what he’d got.  **  
**

With no small amount of suspicion, Belle had lowered her duster and admitted that she could not, whereupon he’d taken a small cherrywood box from under his coat and bent low to present it to her.

Her breath caught. He’d meant it as a joke, she was sure, but there was something in the gesture that reminded her of a knight offering his favor to his lady. It was not wholly unfamiliar to her – she’d received such treatment from Gaston a few times in their courtship – but it had never made her feel as she did then, heart pounding and head dizzy.

Rumplestiltskin had looked up, concerned by her silence, and something in her face must have struck him as well, for her looked away and cleared his throat.

“Let’s take a look then, shall we?” he’d asked.

He’d gone to the table nearby and set he box down with care. Belle had followed, watching curiously as he lifted the lid to reveal an interior of plush scarlet velvet, upon which five golden rings resided. Each was of different thickness and design: the center ring was heavy and bore strange symbols around the outside; to its right, a band woven to resemble a pair of vines, twisted and knotted around each other; to the left, a thick ring out of which geometric shapes had been cut, which seemed to change dimensions as one tried to look at them, so that Belle felt almost dizzy to look at it.

Only the two outermost rings bore any resemblance to each other. The one nearest Belle was a thin, rounded band with no visible ornamentation. On the opposite side sat its likeness, though slightly bigger, and as Belle looked, she noticed a faint glimmer around the edge, almost like a veil of frost.

She looked up at him and waited for an answer. She was no fool. They had to be magic, or else taken from someone very special, or else why would he want them?

They watched each other, eyes locked as they leaned over the table, and he grinned at her.

“Why don’t you try one on and see?” asked Rumplestiltskin.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. With a careless air she looked at the box between them. She reached out, fingers dancing aimlessly over the box as she tried to choose.

Belle did not see the anxious way Rumplestiltskin’s eyes followed her hand, especially when they lingered over the center ring, but his gaze relaxed as she settled on the unadorned band nearest to her. It seemed the likeliest fit. **  
**

He waited for her to take it from the box. Then, catching her eye, he lifted the ring from the opposite end, the one that glittered strangely in the afternoon sun, and waited for her. She gave him a puzzled look as she slipped the ring over her finger.

Nothing happened. Belle waited, glancing at the ring and then at Rumplestiltskin, but there wasn’t even a feel of magic. The ring was a perfect fit, yet otherwise completely ordinary.

Belle caught her master’s eye again, and he was grinning. She opened her mouth to speak, but at that moment he slipped his own ring onto his finger. It flashed a brilliant blue for a fraction of a second, and then he was gone.

She gasped, and then hiccuped. There was a strange taste in her mouth – berries? Belle frowned and looked around for her master, but he was no where to be found. Where had he…

Belle hiccuped again. The taste came back, even stronger. **  
**

She didn’t see Rumplestiltskin for the rest of the afternoon, but every time she thought of him, she hiccuped, and there was a faint taste of cherries.


	9. (Four) Collie Birds

One fine day, the skies clear enough to see for miles, the Dark One found himself playing host to a grand company. The illustrious and exalted Merchants of the Four Corners, as they called themselves, generously paid their respects to the Dark One and begged him to lend his wisdom in a dispute of theirs.

He wished they hadn’t. Each man was a stuffy, overdressed pigeon who sought to raise himself above his company by making use of the Dark One’s arts. They disguised their intentions under a shabby veneer of cordiality and friendship, but Rumplestiltskin could easily see past their mindless prattle of “my dear friend” and “you good fellow” to the sneering hostility and jealousy underneath. They hated each other. He was only surprised they’d gone this long without assassinating each other.

They were arguing now, in their courtly and obsequious way, and showed no signs of stopping any time soon. Rumplestiltskin looked askance at the windows and wondered if he could simply toss them out and have done with. He only hoped Belle wouldn’t mind the mess.

Pursing his lips together in the way in the way his maid would have called peevish, Rumplestiltskin resisted the urge to sigh and tried to rally their attention.

“Gentlemen,” he said, his voice compressed to a near-hiss. The four men paused in their speeches and turned to look at him as if they’d forgotten he was there. He waved one hand imperiously. “What _exactly_  can I do for you today?”

They rounded on him slowly, like a ship aiming its cannons. Each one of them was larger (and rounder) than himself. If he had not been the Dark One for centuries, he might have been intimidated. As it was, he felt as if he was being observed by a pack of decrepit bulldogs.

The first to speak was the one referred to by the others as the Merchant of the South. He wore his thick black hair greased back over flowing emerald robes in a style Rumplestiltskin had seen on some of the more eminent nobles of the previous century. The man pulled back his lips, exposing too many pale white teeth.

“Your benevolence,” the man began. Rumplestiltskin’s eyes snapped on him. There was nothing benevolent about him and they all knew it. The man continued, oblivious, “If you could be so kind as to apply on our predicament the arts for which you are so famed…”

“Though we would not be so bold as to dictate the manner of your work,” piped another, called the Merchant of the East, whose golden robes were only a few shades darker than the straw-like hair that stuck up all over his head. Evidently they had no combs in the East. **  
**

“Should you prove to be impartial, you would not find us ungrateful…” said a third, the so-called Merchant of the North, a blue-bedecked creature with a scattering of coppery red wisps on his head. His statement had a hanging tone.

So that was it. They all hoped to ingratiate themselves to him to seek their advantage over the others. Rumplestiltskin watched them, his gaze cool and his posture as stiff as a cat’s. If they wanted the magic to choose between them, they were out of luck. He cleared his throat, narrowed his unearthly eyes at them and said, “Spells don’t work like that.”

The Merchant of the West, the largest of the men and a de facto leader of sorts, smiled at him. He shook his head, causing his dusty white wig to rustle, before waving a crimson sleeve and booming,“Surely with your intellect you can determine which among us has the greatest claim in this unfortunate-” **  
**

Rumplestiltskin cut through this sycophantic speech with a swift gesture. As his hand fell, four fat, sleek blackbirds plopped to the floor. They stared up at him in silent terror. Rumplestiltskin beamed.

“Now then,” he began, looming over them. “Perhaps we can-”

He paused when he heard footsteps on the stairs and straightened in time to see Belle burst into the tower, her features flushed with exercise.

“Rumple!” she smiled when she saw him. He returned it without thinking and waited while she crossed the room.

“What is it?” Rumplestiltskin asked, his voice softer than he meant it to be.

Belle reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out one of his dragonhide gloves.

“I found the other glove you were looking for. Should I leave it here?” she asked. She held the glove in both hands, close to her chest. **  
**

“Yes, thank you,” he said. He offered his hand, palm up, and made no move to take the glove from her. She placed it gently in his hand, careless of the way her fingers brushed against his.

Their eyes met, and they shared a look of quiet harmony. The moment was disturbed by a small noise at their feet. Belle’s gaze was drawn to the little flock on the floor. **  
**

“Oh, what’s this?” Belle asked. She knelt before the former men, who shied away from her, chirping frantically as they skittered across the stone floor.

Rumplestiltskin gave a shrug.

“Just some lost birds who mistook my tower for their roost.”

“Will they be all right?” she asked.

He chuckled.

“I’m sure they’ll manage.”


	10. (Three) French Hens

He kept chickens, for whatever reason. Belle suspected it was his way of bringing life into this cold, empty place. Certainly he didn’t need the eggs. They arrived, like everything else, in a little basket in the pantry just after sunrise.

She had gone down to the kitchen early one morning to see if it restocked itself in the night. The cupboard had been empty when she opened it. She’d waited a few minutes, until she saw the first crimson rays of dawn creeping over the horizon through the kitchen window, and opened the cupboard to find the shelves full to bursting, as they were every morning when she began her work.

So he didn’t need eggs. She wasn’t quite sure what he did with the ones his hens laid, or if the eggs in the kitchen weren’t theirs after all, just transported magically in the kitchen when she would have need of them. It seemed a lot of trouble for a few eggs.

Nonetheless, it was Belle’s duty to tend the chickens each morning. She was not averse to the task, for she had so little interaction with living creatures that she was glad to see them every day. The hens were lively, clamoring at her feet when she brought their daily grain. She tossed handfuls here and there and watched the birds crowd over each other to peck greedily at the seeds. There was more than enough for all, but they still pushed and jostled each other to have the best spread. Belle laughed at their noisy squabbles and tossed another handful whenever they got too quarrelsome.

Today was no different than any other. She had tied a scarf around her hair to protect from the sun and the bitter chill. The yard where the chickens were kept was always dry and clear of snow, so she hadn’t bothered to change out of her neat blue heels. There was a high stone wall around the place. She knew the gardens were on the other side, and the door to the kitchen was not far behind where she stood, so she felt safe and secluded in this sheltered little province.

If she was honest with herself, she felt that way more and more in the castle, especially when Rumplestiltskin was nearby. The thought brought a flush to her cheeks. Belle ducked her head and busied herself with dribbling little streams of grain at her feet. Her birds noticed and quickly shuffled over to enjoy this new boon.

So absorbed was she that she did not notice when the air protracted around her, and a dark column of smoke grew behind her, until there was a loud WHOOSH and her master appeared at her side. Belle shrieked. The chickens squawked and fled in all directions, heedless of the grain their mistress spilled as she whirled round to face the Dark One himself.

“You – you – you!” Belle stammered, cheeks burning.

He was grinning at her.

“Yes, me?” Rumplestiltskin said. **  
**

Belle’s face hardened into an expression that was not quite stern – her lips were turned upward and her eyes were sparkling – before she let out a huff.

“If you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful,” she said lightly. She set the bowl of grain on the ground and removed the scarf from her hair.

Rumplestiltskin watched with amusement until she leaned forward to tie the scarf around his own head. He went still as a stone and watched her with wide, fitful eyes. Belle took no notice. She bent to retrieve the bowl of grain and pushed it firmly – but not roughly – into his hands, which curled around it automatically.

“Now, if you please,” Belle said, gesturing grandly at the yard around them.

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. His eyes darted from her to a patch of dirt some inches behind her.

“Yes, miss,” replied the Dark One. **  
**

He stood there, obediently shoveling grain between his fingers, while Belle knelt at his feet and coaxed the chickens back to their breakfast.


	11. (Two) Turtle Doves

A late spring snowstorm brought a hush over the castle. There was something almost sacred about the place. Normally the silence was oppressive, even to one who had lived there for years, but the gentle white flurries brought with them a calm such as Rumplestiltskin seldom felt.

The snow brushed against the windows of his tower like velvet. He paused to watch the white swirls once, twice, and a third time before he sighed and set down his vials. He was distracted. There was no sense in pressing on in this way. His mind was elsewhere.

But where, exactly? Rumplestiltskin tidied his work table absently, arranging things to keep for the moment. His fingers moved like the eddies of snow outside, whirling and pausing as if meeting some barrier, looping back to the path of least resistance. He had the table in impeccable order before descending the steps of the tower. **  
**

His steps were aimless. He found himself wandering in a long corridor on the far side of the castle, near the gardens. It was cold here, even to him, for the curtains were all drawn on the line of windows that faced the grounds. The corridor was lit by an unearthly pallor, almost like moonlight. Snow poured outside the glass like a veil. **  
**

Rumplestiltskin had seen snow many times in this castle, but it was the first time he felt the strange urge to reach out and touch it, feel the downy flakes on his skin. A fervid part of him thought they must be warm.

He had no particular destination. He didn’t even know what he was looking for until he found it.

She was sitting under one of the windows near the end of the hall. There was a seat there, with plush cushions embroidered in gold. It had become one of her favorite haunts since she came to the castle.

Rumplestiltskin stopped some feet from her. She had her back turned, seemingly unaware of his presence. The fringed shawl she wore against the cold had slipped from her shoulders, and the book in her lap lay open and unread. Her eyes were on the window, watching that impossible cascade of winter splendor.

“Belle,” he said, after a moment had passed with no change. He expected she would be startled, even annoyed by his interruption, but she looked over her shoulder as if not disturbed in the least to find him there. She smiled, a gentle curve of the lips that matched the tranquil expression of her eyes.

“Look,” Belle said, by way of greeting, and she turned back to the window and pointed with one hand, trailing the shawl with her arm. He moved to stand next to her. There was a candle at her feet, long since burned out, and the seat was not quite long enough to accommodate two without a certain intimacy, so he pressed himself to her back as close as he dared, swallowing as he felt the warmth of her permeate his front.

She was pointing just outside the window. He followed her hand to a young pine on the grounds. It was close enough to not be obscured by the snow, though the branches were laden with drifts. One of these moved, and Rumplestiltskin realized he was looking not at a mass of snow, but a white bird.

His eyes adjusted more, and he saw there were two of them on the branch together, nipping each other affectionately. He said nothing, but watched in silence, as captivated as his little maid.

“They must have come to build their nest,” Belle whispered. Her voice carried perfectly well in the tiny alcove.

Again he said nothing. At some point his hands had made their way to her shoulders, and he was tracing light patterns with his fingers without realizing.

“They say doves mate for life, you know,” she added. If he had looked at her face, seen the breathless way she parted her lips as he touched her, he might have backed away, hidden away in his tower for the rest of the evening. But he did not.

They stayed and watched until the birds alighted from the pine and vanished into the gale. His fingers stilled then, resting on her upper arms, and he noticed how cold her skin was was.

“Come away,” Rumplestiltskin said gently. “You’ll catch cold.”

He helped her to her feet and arranged the shawl around her shoulders. Belle said nothing as he collected her book and candle from the window, but she took hold of his sleeve when he turned to present them to her. His eyes flickered to her fingers, and he wet his lips without thinking.

She tugged him gently in the direction he had come. He followed, though his eyes never reached her face. They walked without speaking a single word. Their course was aimless, but at some point her arm looped through his, and when he finally dared a peek at her expression, the shadows of the snow fell across her face like lace, with a faint flush of pink underneath.


	12. A Partridge in a Pear Tree

He had given her leave to decorate as she liked, so long as she took care of the details herself and avoided any ladders. This came after weeks of her insisting they ought to recognize the winter solstice in some way. Rumplestiltskin never decorated for the holidays – what was the point, when he was the only one around to observe them? - but her persistence wore him down.

Besides, if it kept her busy, he saw no point in denying her request. The longer his little maid spent in his castle, the more adept she became at her work, and lately she had spent increasing amounts of time wandering the halls aimlessly in search of some occupation. Frequently her roving brought her to his tower, or the room where he kept his spinning wheel, where she would make gentle attempts at small talk or offer to bring him some tea.

It wasn’t as if these rendezvous were annoying to him. Far from it. She brought with her a companionable air that was suited to silence as well as conversation, and several occasions saw them spending hours together in the same room without a single word being exchanged as he worked his sinister arts and she pored over some volume taken from the library. They often sat apart, yet every now and then he received a reminder of her presence in the form of a rustling page or a ruffle of cloth. It was oddly reassuring. **  
**

Besides, he was responsible for bringing her there, deal or no, and if she was bored, he could not help feel a little responsible for that as well. He could hardly give her more work to do. She was a fastidious creature and had already done what he assumed would be the work of lifetimes in making over his dusty abode all by herself. These days it seemed the castle had a different air just for her being in it. **  
**

So he had grumbled and stymied for the necessary amount of time – it wouldn’t do to be too obliging – before granting her his assent to bedeck his corridors in whatever fripperies she saw fit. She’d actually hugged him for that, catching him so by surprise that he’d been unable to raise any objections. When she pulled away, she wore such a smile that one would think he’d offered her the world on a string. She’d skipped off, humming some festive tune, and he’d actually felt a stirring of excitement in his heart.

He’d watched her attempts to make his dark citadel into a place of holiday cheer with a look on his face of one trying to understand some puzzle. It wasn’t as if he was spying on her, though he would admit to stepping away from his work from time to time to see how she was getting along. He was surprised by what he saw – bright garlands strung down the hallways, though he had no idea where she could have found them; sparkling ornaments fixed in the highest spots she could reach, for she’d remembered his decree about the ladder; and bits of greenery tucked into any spot she fancied, granting the place the smell of some secluded grove. The place looked practically transformed. **  
**

Certainly he’d always kept the castle in a respectable state, but Rumplestiltskin had never gone to the trouble of making it an inviting place. Quite the opposite, in fact. It was good for his business for people to be more than a little intimidated by their surroundings. Yet under her hand it was a different place entirely.

Still, he had thought she would confine her efforts indoors. He did not expect to find his maid toiling away in the orchard, busily ensconced halfway up one of his fruit trees. She must have climbed up, for there was not so much as a footstool in sight, and doubtless she thought this was sufficient to dodge his edict on the subject of ladders.

He’d left his work table with a potion half-brewed in order to check on her progress for what must have been the tenth time that day to discover she was nowhere to be seen. When she was not to be found in any of her usual haunts, Rumplestiltskin had felt a prickle of unease. He resorted to a bit of magic to discern her whereabouts. He had expected her to have run off, or been carried away by some rogue, not happily wedged between two limbs of a pear tree on the outermost part of his estate.

Yet there she was, humming away, working on some activity just out of sight. He could not bring himself to be angry. After all, he’d told her to do as she liked. She was certainly doing just that, heedless of her skirts wafting at the mercy of the breeze. An impish gust gave him a view of laced white stockings. Rumplestiltskin’s eyes darted to the foot of the tree, and he cleared his throat loudly, a twinge of warmth on his cheeks.

Belle heard the noise and turned, smiling when she saw him.

“Hello, Rumple,” she said, sounding a little breathless from her exercise.

He summoned a devilish grin – though there was still something timid about the eyes – and called cheerfully, “I’ve never found such a strange bird on my grounds. Shall I stuff it for the mantlepiece?”

She made a face, but did not seem unamused.

“I’m just finishing the decorations,” Belle replied.

“Ah,” he said mildly. He glanced around, but saw nothing. “And what, may I ask-?” **  
**

She leaned back, showing where she’d tied a doll of some sort, evidently handmade, into the branches behind her. He could not make out what it was supposed to be.

“A parrot?” Rumplestiltskin said dubiously.

Belle huffed.

“It’s an angel!”

“Ah. I thought it might have been some sort of pheasant, perhaps,” he said.

“It’s supposed to bring good luck,” Belle replied dourly.

He wrinkled his nose. **  
**

“Well, we’ve little enough need of that,” the imp said pettishly.

Belle said nothing, but her lips spread into a smile. She reached out a hand and said, “Help me down?”

He took her hand without a word and steadied her step as she pushed off from her perch. He did not release her immediately after she found her footing, and she smiled at him.

“Thank you,” Belle said. **  
**

Feelings the warmth of her fingers in his, and seeing the way her eyes shone as she looked up at him, he had to resist the urge to return the sentiment.


End file.
